


Masks

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Masks, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3063254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Laurent pushes the weight of the tent flap aside Gerome is looking at him, hunched forward over a desk like his usual careful posture has vanished along with the sun." Gerome and Laurent catch each other awake in the late hours of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



Laurent hadn’t expected to find anyone else awake at this hour. It’s uncommon even for him to be alert into the small hours of the morning, and certainly past midnight the perpetual sound of the others has died down into the hush of unconsciousness. Usually it lulls him into rest of his own, but he has been caught up in recordkeeping, and suffering from an excess of nervous energy, and by the time he is satisfied with his latest report the night has become infused with the shadowy weight of true sleep. There is something soothing about it, a sort of private pleasure to be had in consciousness in the midst of sleep, and for a moment Laurent stands in the opening of his tent, looking out over the dark, still shapes around him.

In the dark, the one light stands out like a beacon. Laurent wouldn’t have noted it earlier in the evening, but with his own tent offering glowing backlight the warm illumination from the other looks like an offering, an invitation even before he identifies which tent it is that is shining so brightly. He realizes, after a moment, smiles without realizing it, and when he steps out of his own to go towards Gerome’s there’s no conscious decision in the movement at all.

He hesitates at the entrance, within range of the shadowy form of the sleeping wyvern against the outside of the tent. The invitation that seemed so clear from across the camp feels like it might be invasive, now, especially when he isn’t certain the other man is actually awake at all. He’s lingering on the path, report under his arm and hand half-raised, when there’s an unmistakable sigh from the interior, almost a groan of exhaustion, and that at least answers the question of Gerome being awake.

“Good evening,” Laurent offers, his tone that of a call but the volume pitched low in consideration of the hour. When he pushes the weight of the tent flap aside Gerome is looking at him, hunched forward over a desk like his usual careful posture has vanished along with the sun. But he’s not frowning, at least not any more than he usually is, and when Laurent hesitates in the doorway Gerome leans back in his chair and beckons him in.

“I didn’t think anyone else was awake.” His tone is gruff, would be a rejection in anyone else’s voice. In his it’s just exhaustion, consideration of other, separate problems.

“From the look of the camp no one else is.” Laurent steps forward, slides the report out from his elbow so he can offer it. “In truth I should have been asleep myself some hours ago, had I not been engrossed in this.” Gerome reaches out to take the document; Laurent’s looking for his reaction, which is why he sees the tiny twist of a smile at the corner of the other man’s mouth. “Reports instead of sleeping? I appreciate your dedication, Laurent, but I can hardly support your decision. Rest is as important to an army as anything else.”

“I assure you I will not make a habit of it,” Laurent replies with as straight a face as he can muster. Gerome is still looking at him, or at least has his face tipped up -- it’s hard to be certain where he’s looking, with the dark of the mask covering his face. Still, Laurent takes the opportunity to glance around the rest of the tent, deliberately noting the lack of reports or anything other possible explanation of Gerome’s current alertness. By the time he clears his throat Gerome is smiling in truth; the expression looks odd on his face, like he doesn’t entirely remember how it feels to relax into the emotion.

“Might I suggest the same applies to you?” Gerome huffs an exhale and it’s not quite a laugh but neither is it refusal, so Laurent carries on. “You can hardly be effective without sufficient rest to regain your energy.”

“You’re not wrong.” Gerome sighs, the shape of his smile fading as he ruffles a hand through his hair. It shifts the position of the locks, makes him look oddly informal although he is still wearing the heavy weight of armor across his shoulders. “I don’t sleep well.” It doesn’t sound like a confession as much as a statement, distant fact without the emotion of exhaustion under it. “Headaches, mostly.”

It’s uncommon intimacy, coming from the other, and it’s that as much as the unconscious motion of his hand and the weight of his voice that draws Laurent closer, like he can offer comfort via physical proximity. “I can sympathize,” is what he says, more of an offer than it is a statement. Gerome tips his head back to keep his face turned towards Laurent as he comes in closer, close enough to reach out and touch the edge of the table if he wanted.

“It’s common enough that I’ve become used to it,” Gerome offers without being prompted. It’s hard to read emotion from just the line of his mouth, especially when his voice is rough from the late hour and what might be lingering pain under the sound. He lifts a hand to press against his temple, his lips curving down into a grimace as he moves.

“Forgive me,” he says, without any further context, and Laurent is just opening his mouth to inquire what requires forgiveness when Gerome hooks his fingers under the edge of his mask and eases it off. Laurent doesn’t have a chance to brace himself or even do more than take a quick startled breath before Gerome is setting the mask aside and rubbing a hand across his newly revealed features.

“Oh,” Laurent says, and he is reaching out for the table, grounding himself with the press of fingertips to the wood like it will give him some kind of defense for this unexpected occurrence.

Gerome glances up. Without the mask on Laurent can tell when the other is looking at him, can see the flicker of eyelashes as he blinks and the surprisingly human softness in the his eyes. “I apologize,” he says, sounding awkward on the words before he looks away and swallows. “It fits quite well, but when I’m already dealing with a headache--”

“No,” Laurent manages. He swallows, nods in careful agreement. “No, of course, naturally you should pursue whatever is most comfortable. I had not expected to see you without it, that is all.”

Gerome looks back up, blinks as the tension of pain in his expression gives way to the parted lips and wide eyes of surprise. “You’ve never seen me take my mask off?”

Laurent shakes his head, looks away because it’s safer to look at his fingers against the table than at a Gerome gone human and dangerously accessible with this change. “You’ve never had occasion to.”

“It’s true I generally wear it, but I thought with you--” Laurent glances up at the end of that sentence but Gerome stops as he looks, tips his head down and smiles sheepishly. “It hardly matters.” He reaches out to set his fingers at the corner of the table, brushes against the grain of the wood for an inch. Laurent can see the shadows of insomnia under his eyelashes.

“You look different,” Laurent says, as if it needs saying.

Gerome glances up at him. With his eyes uncovered his smile looks apologetic more than faintly mocking as it usually does. His entire face curves around the expression, the lines catching into his eyes. “I’d be more concerned if I didn’t,” he says, and Laurent realizes he’s being teased a moment before Gerome tips his chin up, reaches for the other’s face. “What about you?”

“What?” Laurent lifts a hand, touches the wide brim of his hat. “To what are you referring?”

“Those.” Gerome gestures, curls a finger like he’s beckoning, and Laurent leans in without thinking, responsive to the gesture before he understands the meaning. Gerome reaches for his face, his fingertips brush against the edge of Laurent’s cheek, and then he’s pulling away and drawing Laurent’s glasses with him. “Aren’t they a mask too?”

Laurent blinks, draws back like distance will give him back the clarity of his vision. “Not a deliberate one,” he manages, instead of protest that Gerome has stolen his ability to see the other’s expression. “I require them to see clearly.”

“Mm.” Gerome turns over the frames, lifts them to fit over his own face. “You’re not that nearsighted, are you?”

“Not significantly,” Laurent admits. “They do assist with reading and fine detail.”

“Can you tell I’m me?” Gerome asks.

Laurent has to smile, if only barely. “Of course. Even without your usual mask it’s not difficult to identify your features. I simply must be closer to make out the specifics.”

Laurent doesn’t know what impulsivity possesses him. It might be the lateness of the hour, or the unprecedented sight of Gerome’s features, or the fact that the blur of his absent lenses leaves everything hazy and unreal. But he braces his hand on the table, leans in over the support, and when he blinks next he’s close enough to Gerome’s expression that he can see it clearly, borrowed frames and all.

“This is close enough,” he says. He can see the motion of Gerome’s eyelashes when he blinks, can see the glow of candlelight off the line of the other man’s jaw. “I can see you from here.” And he can, he can see the color of Gerome’s uncovered eyes, caramel and gold in the light. He can see the bruise-purple of exhaustion in the soft curve of his eyelid, the way it creeps up the inside angle to smudge against his upper lid as well. He can see the part of Gerome’s lips, the way they fall open, the way his tongue skims out against his lower lip to run damp against the skin.

“Laurent,” Gerome says, and Laurent thinks  _oh_ , and by the time he looks back up Gerome’s staring at his mouth too. Laurent takes a breath and by the end of it Gerome has halved the distance to him, covered the gap by the simple expedient of leaning in. He keeps moving, and Laurent doesn’t, and then Gerome’s mouth is against his, the part in his lips fitting itself against the soft shock collecting at Laurent’s lower lip.

Laurent doesn’t move. Time slows syrupy around him, fitting itself around the shape of breaths he has forgotten to take. Gerome inhales through his nose, so close to Laurent’s skin the other can feel the gust of air, and then Laurent starts to shut his eyes under the influence of the kiss just as Gerome draws back with that same adrenaline-slowed movement. It takes Laurent another heartbeat to open his eyes, to pull his vision back into focus on Gerome’s face, and then he’s staring at the other just as Gerome’s eyes go wide and dark with shock.

“Sorry,” he blurts, and it’s rough in his throat but his eyes are soft and shaking with rising panic. Laurent thinks very distantly that this is as good a reason as any for the mask, that all Gerome’s assumed composure is destroyed by the expressiveness of those eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He looks down at the table, at Laurent’s fingers pressed against the surface. His hand comes up to pull the other’s glasses off his face, offer them back without looking.

Laurent reaches for the frames, closes his fingers on the metal and Gerome’s fingers indiscriminately. He can feel the other man shaking under his touch, tiny shocks of adrenaline rushing through him like the vibration of a bell tolling. He keeps his hold, draws their hands down and clear of the space between them.

“It was not unwelcome,” he says, every word careful against his tongue, and leans into the empty space so he can return the gesture. Gerome shuts his eyes as Laurent leans in closer, his expression going soft with shock and expectation, and that’s all Laurent has time to see before his attention is focusing on the warmth of the other’s lips against his. Gerome’s mouth is still barely open, without any trace of his usual attentive scowl, and this is wholly unlike how Laurent would have expected kissing him to be had he thought of it at all. His own hold on Gerome’s fingers is slipping loose, he’s parting his lips to match the other’s, and after a moment the other’s fingers are pushing at his hair, tipping up against the brim of his hat and sliding it back on his head. Laurent’s focus is drifting away, going lighter than air and dropping out of his head until there’s nothing at all, just odd silence while the pressure at his lips sparks heat into his blood and the gust of Gerome’s breathing washes warm against his skin. He lifts his free hand without thinking, reaches out for Gerome’s face without opening his eyes. His fingers meet skin, brush against the flushed edge of the other man’s jawline -- and Gerome jerks away, pulls back by an inch without lifting his hand from its curl against Laurent’s hair.

“Sorry,” he says again, but he’s not pulling back any farther; Laurent can see his features clear from their proximity. “I shouldn’t.”

“You are not the aggressor,” Laurent says, impulse-quick to reject the implication of that statement. He has to pause in the middle, gasp for a breath; he didn’t realize his heart was pounding that hard, that his pulse was coming that quickly. “Of the two of us I am the more active party.” He lets his hand fall from Gerome’s skin to his shoulder, the cold resistance of metal under his fingers instead of skin. “Would you prefer that I stop?”

Gerome blinks. His eyes are dark, wide, Laurent isn’t certain they’re in focus at all anymore. He swallows, shakes his head without speaking, and he’s leaning back in before Laurent can take the lead again, pushing hard against the other’s hair and getting to his feet so he has the advantage of height. Laurent stumbles backward, turning as he goes until the desk catches his weight, and Gerome’s fingers dig into his hair, shove until his hat falls back. Laurent pulls back, turns to grab as it falls, but it lands safely against the table and that’s good enough to ease his concern, together with the hand pressing against his hair and the way Gerome is leaning in to kiss at the top edge of his collar.

“What about now?” Gerome asks, his mouth so close to Laurent’s ear that he can feel the shake of the sound against his skin, like it’s a true question and not a rhetorical one. Gerome’s knee presses against his leg and Laurent’s balance goes, sends him tipping back over the desk until it’s supporting his weight instead of his feet. Their hands are still tangled together around Laurent’s half-forgotten glasses; Gerome’s thumb catches at Laurent’s, slides down against the inside of his wrist. “What about now, Laurent?” and his voice turns the name into a plea and Laurent thinks distantly that he should be more concerned about this turn of events than he is.

“It would seem you know better how to proceed than I,” Laurent says in lieu of panicking. Gerome leaves him to hold the frames of his glasses, slides his grip down until his fingers are curled around Laurent’s wrist. The pressure skims down, pushes Laurent’s sleeve away from his skin, and Laurent has never considered his arms as particularly sensitive but under the deliberate weight of Gerome’s touch his skin is lighting up from wrist to elbow.

There’s a touch of damp at his throat, what might be the motion of a tongue dipping against his skin; then Gerome pulls away, rocks back on his heels and blinks at Laurent like he can’t quite remember how vision works. His mouth is soft and damp and bruised-red and it’s odd to have more of his expression to read than just his mouth, to have the shivery color of his eyes and to be able to see that he’s staring at Laurent’s features as if there’s something crucial to be read there.

“I should stop,” he says, rough and anxious, and Laurent would believe he meant it except for that look in his eyes, like he’s pleading for the other to stop him. His hold at Laurent’s arm goes slack but lingers for a moment, the texture of his thumb sliding against the inside of the other’s elbow, and when Laurent moves it’s to reach towards the dark shadows of his upended hat.

“Will you sleep on your own?” he asks, turning his head to watch the blurry shape of his glasses as he tucks them into the safe inside of the brim. His fingers are shaking without the weight of something to hold but Gerome hasn’t moved farther away when he brings his hand back in; he reaches out for the flat black of the other’s armor, feels out the gap at his waist by touch more than by sight.

“No,” Gerome says, still shaping the words like he’s weighting them with an excess of thought, and Laurent lets a breath out slowly and carefully while he collects his own words into the right form of suggestion.

“I have found company to be better than solitude in circumstances as these.” When he slides his hand farther he finds the back of Gerome’s armor, presses his fingers in against the warmth of the other’s body through the thinner protection offered by his shirt. Gerome shudders like he hasn’t been touched in years, his grip tightens, and Laurent sucks in a breath and thinks that he can sympathize.

“If you’re sure,” Gerome finally manages, and there’s a whole field of meaning behind that but Laurent doesn’t wait for more clarification. Gerome is shutting his eyes, bowing his head like he’s submitting to something -- Laurent, his own impulses, the relief of contact after constant loneliness, it doesn’t matter. Laurent tugs his arm free of the other’s hold, sinks his fingers into the soft friction of Gerome’s hair, and when Gerome tips his head back in wordless encouragement he leans back in to feel out the shape of the other’s mouth against his.

Laurent is careful about the movement. Gerome is not. Laurent’s mouth just touches his before he’s leaning in, pushing for more with a desperation Laurent suspects is unconscious or at least uncontrollable, tipping the other back so far he has to tighten his fingers at the back of Gerome’s neck just to keep his balance. He can feel how hard Gerome is breathing, panting for air but refusing to pull away, and when he opens his mouth tentatively Gerome is licking against him before he can worry about rejection, slicking his tongue is against Laurent’s and over the roof of his mouth until Laurent shivers from the ticklish sensation and his fingers close into a fist at the back of Gerome’s shirt. The tug distracts the other, or maybe it’s the gasp of reaction Laurent can’t call back; Gerome draws back, gulping air like the taste of Laurent’s mouth has stolen his breath, and then he’s stepping away, pulling out of reach so for a moment Laurent thinks he’s having a moment of delayed regret.

Then he reaches for his shoulder, turns his head to watch what he’s doing as he works a buckle free, and Laurent is on his feet again, stretching out to help because if Gerome out of his mask is exciting the idea of the other out of his constant armor is enough to bring a wave of heat washing straight through his entire body.

“I’ve got it,” Gerome suggests, but it’s not really a protest and the metal is easing off his shoulders like the fastenings have been cut, and when he shrugs Laurent tugs and the whole thing comes free, leaves him in the patterned dark of his undershirt. It fits him better than the armor did, clings to the motion of his body and gives away the humanity of his actions, and Laurent is reaching out without thinking, curling one hand in against the side of Gerome’s waist and tugging at the edge of his shirt to expose a stripe of skin so pale it looks white against the dark of his clothes. He hesitates before he can get himself to reach out for it, his fingers stalled just above Gerome’s skin; then his arm moves on its own accord, shatters the breathless anticipation, and Gerome sighs as if he’s letting a breath go that has been held for a year and reaches out for the buttons at the collar of Laurent’s shirt.

“I hate this,” he says, but he’s smiling to undermine the meaning of the words, and the expression is glowing hot in his eyes. “It does far too good a job at keeping you covered.”

“What was that?” Laurent says, the meaning lost between them, and Gerome pulls the top of his shirt open and ducks his head, presses his lips in against Laurent’s throat like he wants to taste the pattern of his pulse, and Laurent’s head goes back without any intention on his part at all. “Ah,” he manages as a response, the sound dragged tense and humming under Gerome’s lips. “I had never considered that perspective.”

There’s a laugh at his skin, a huff of strained amusement. Gerome’s fingers push the weight of his clothing aside, shoving at his overclothes so he can continue working down the front of Laurent’s shirt. “I suggest it.” He pulls back for a moment, pushes roughly at the other’s clothes, and Laurent lets the careful touch of his fingers on the bare skin of Gerome’s hip go so he can struggle out of the topmost layers of fabric and let it fall to the desk. It leaves his shoulders oddly light, freed of the usual weight of cloak and jacket and collar all together, but he doesn’t have much time to consider the weird lack of resistance before Gerome gets his shirt half-undone and slides his fingers in under the loosened fabric. His hands are warm, callused from the weight of weapons and the pattern of old scars, and the friction they drag in their wake burns Laurent as if he’s bursting into flame. He’s shaking before he realizes it, trembling under that touch and reaching out to steady himself at Gerome’s hip, and then Gerome’s mouth is against his lips and there’s that hot slip of the other’s tongue against his mouth and he loses track of everything but the flushed heat of friction against his skin and at his mouth. Gerome steps in closer and Laurent’s hand slides in farther under his shirt, runs up against the shift of muscle against his back, and their legs are fitting together and he is really truly glad for the desk at his back to keep his balance for him.

“Laurent?” Gerome says, drawing the vowels slow and purring like he’s savouring the taste of them. Laurent blinks his eyes into focus; the surroundings are blurred out except for Gerome’s face, the unfamiliar shape of his features clear against the background haze. He’s watching Laurent’s face, his eyes skimming over the other’s features and lingering heavy at his lips, and he’s chewing at his lower lip in a way Laurent is certain is unconscious. His hand is pushing lower, trailing over Laurent’s waist and he must have gotten the rest of the shirt open, Laurent hadn’t realized he had made it that far but the fabric is open and hanging off his shoulders instead of buttoned in close over his skin.

Gerome takes a breath, starts to lean in to kiss him again before he catches himself. “Say if you want me to stop.” It’s gruff with inattention but Laurent is hardly listening anyway; Gerome’s fingers are sliding in against the top of his pants and he doesn’t want anything remotely like stopping to occur. The contact so low at his hip is drawing his attention down, pulling his thoughts from the friction of his lips to the rush of blood pressing him hard against the front of his pants, and he would flush with embarrassment except Gerome is groaning like he’s the one being touched. He presses the heel of his hand against the taut-stretched fabric and Laurent’s fingers jerk at the other’s skin in some half-formed need to pull him closer. Gerome’s other hand closes at his hip, fingers against cloth and skin alike and tight enough to brace Laurent in place, and Laurent is grateful for that point of reference while the other tugs his belt loose of its buckle and manages the fastenings of his pants one-handed. Laurent would be impressed -- Gerome doesn’t look down, and still manages it with remarkable speed -- but Gerome is staring at his face, still gazing at his eyes like he’s never seen Laurent before, and Laurent is gasping air in uncontrollable response to the accidental press of Gerome’s fingers and he can’t figure out how to stop or restrain his reaction.

“It’s alright,” Gerome says, as if that will help, and his fingers are pushing past loosened fabric and curling in against Laurent’s length. He’s the one who lets out a breath as if of relief, ducks his head to press his forehead to Laurent’s shoulder while every inch of Laurent’s body is trying to tense at the same moment and stealing his breath in the process. He shudders against Gerome’s brace at his hip and that’s when the other slides his hand up over him. It’s not a smooth motion -- it’s awkward, strained from the angle and too rushed to match Laurent’s established preference -- but it’s someone else’s touch,  _Gerome’s_  touch, and Laurent has never considered the value of that before but clearly that was an oversight on his part. Gerome nearly doesn’t have to do anything -- the flicker-heat awareness of his touch would be enough alone -- and in conjunction with the jerky motion of his fingers dragging bursts of sensation in their wake there’s not much Laurent  _can_  do other than to tighten his fingers into a fist at the shirt over Gerome’s shoulder and try to remember how to breathe. He can hear the thud of his heartbeat ringing in his ears, the gasp of his breathing coming loud and anxious, and the curve of his spine is arching steeper, tipping his shoulders back as reflex pushes his hips forward against Gerome’s touch.

It catches him between inhales, just as he’s letting one hard-won breath go so he can start fighting for a second. The tension along his spine draws taut, forms itself around the shape of something Laurent was almost unaware of, and when Gerome’s fingers skid over him and catch at hot-swollen skin he jerks and says “ _Oh_ ” like it’s a surprise as he shivers himself into convulsive pleasure under the other’s touch.

Gerome lets a breath go, the same shaky relief when his fingers first brushed against Laurent, and loosens his grip, lets his hold go gentle as he strokes up to draw the last of the heat burning out into Laurent’s blood. By the time he lets go Laurent feels like he’s melting, like the heat from the candlelight has replaced his blood and left him half-liquid around the weight of his body. Gerome is reaching for a cloth, or a shirt, Laurent’s not sure, but his bracing hand is still against the other’s hip, holding him where he is leaning at the table.

“Gerome,” Laurent manages, lets his hold on the other’s shirt and hip go so he can draw his clothes back into some semblance of order and fumble his shirt buttons back where they belong. His hair is ruffled and his breathing is coming fast, and all his skin is sticky with heat and sweat together, but it’s the best he can manage under the circumstances.

“Mm?” Gerome has found a cloth. He lets Laurent’s hip go to hold the fabric and wipe his fingers clean.

Laurent reaches out, sets his fingers in at the other’s hips. “Stay where you are, if you please.” Gerome looks away from what he’s doing, his forehead creasing in confusion, but Laurent is already moving, letting the heavy weight of his limbs drop him to the floor. The ground is hard against his knees, he’s sure that will hurt momentarily, but Gerome makes a shocked noise over his head even before he moves his hands, and that’s satisfying enough to make up for transient physical discomfort. Laurent glances up but he can’t see any detail at this distance, just the wide-eyed surprise writ large across Gerome’s features, and that’s enough to pull a smile onto his own pleasure-blank face as he looks back down and focuses on the motion of his hands. Gerome’s clothes aren’t that complicated, that they need that much attention, but Gerome himself is jerking every time Laurent’s hands slip, and leaning in so far Laurent is cast in his shadow, and the breathless inhales he is taking are worth Laurent’s attention all by themselves.

He doesn’t manage coherency until Laurent has his belt undone, has worked the fabric of his pants loose and nearly open. Laurent’s almost there, at eye-level with the undeniable evidence of Gerome’s interest, and for a moment it all strikes him as impossible, as some superheated dream from which he will wake, as he always eventually wakes from the best dreams, cold and alone and aching from the sudden chill. It’s that more than lack of interest that stops his motions, that leaves Laurent with his fingers at the edge of Gerome’s clothes and his mouth half-open on a breath of anticipation as he waits for everything to collapse around him.

Then Gerome rocks forward, just a tiny movement of his hips that presses in against the other’s touch. Laurent isn’t even certain it’s a conscious movement; judging from the visible tremble in the other’s legs he’s past the point of controlling such minimal shifts of his weight. But it’s separate from Laurent’s own thoughts, proves the other’s presence as more than a figment of his imagination, and that’s enough to urge him forward. He pulls at the fabric and there’s no sudden jerk up out of a dream; there’s just Gerome, flushed and hard and barely jerking when Laurent touches him with the very tips of his fingers.

“Ah,” Laurent says, sounding distantly reverent, and while Gerome sucks in a shaking breath he opens his mouth and leans in to take the other just past his lips. He tastes like bitter, sharp and biting and heavy, but mostly he’s hot, hard and pushing against Laurent’s lips and over him Gerome is gasping, shaking and pressing at the tabletop so hard Laurent can hear the scrape of his nails against the wood. It seems wisest to replace his hold at the other’s hips, to brace him where he stands against the shake in his knees and the tension in his shoulders, and when Laurent comes in to slide the other’s length in over the slick friction of his tongue all Gerome’s quivering reaction is spent against the pressure of his hands. It’s easier if he shuts his eyes, focuses just on the slide of heat past his lips; he has to open his mouth wider, move slower than he expected, much slower than he would be were he stroking with his hand. It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference to Gerome, except perhaps in the positive sense; he’s shaking unceasingly as Laurent finds a rhythm and starts to let Gerome slide a little farther past his lips with each stroke. He’s getting hotter, the pressure against Laurent’s tongue increasing as there’s another spill of that salty slick against his mouth, and then Gerome lets the table go, grabs at Laurent’s hair to hold him still, and he’s groaning a shaking approximation of Laurent’s name and coming over his tongue. It’s hot and sticky and bitter but Laurent can feel each shudder of sensation rippling through Gerome, the heat trembling through him like  Laurent is picking it up secondhand, and when Gerome lets his hair go and they slide apart he’s almost sorry for the loss.

“On your feet,” Gerome says, not unkindly, and he’s reaching for Laurent’s wrist, pulling him up before the other can quite manage the motion alone. Gerome’s fingers are trembling faintly but he’s smiling, pleased and warm and so soft Laurent has that odd feeling again, the uncanny sense of almost-recognition for familiar features under an unknown expression. He hesitates, lost in that breath of uncertainty, but Gerome doesn’t, he’s leaning in to kiss the faint catch of stickiness off Laurent’s lips. Laurent leans back against the desk, and Gerome leans forward, and for a moment Laurent thinks they might be about to start all over again.

Then Gerome recollects himself, pulls back and blinks himself into focus, although he’s still smiling and his fingers are still resting at the inside of Laurent’s wrist. “You need to go, don’t you.”

Laurent wishes, for the first time in his life, that he were better at lying. “I do, yes.”

“Of course.” Gerome pauses only for a moment before he steps away, reaches for Laurent’s abandoned clothing while the other retrieves his glasses and replaces the precision of his vision. It only takes a few moments to make himself presentable again with Gerome’s help; then there’s just the taste lingering at his tongue, and Gerome’s own uncovered features, to prove that anything happened at all.

Gerome clears his throat, draws his expression into stoic resolve more familiar to Laurent’s memory. It doesn’t make sense that it should look like more of a mask, now, than the actual covering itself. “You should get some rest.”

“I should,” Laurent agrees. Gerome looks down, steps aside, and that’s suggestion enough for Laurent to move towards the tent flap, even if his steps are smaller and slower than they usually might be.

“Laurent.”

Laurent stops instantly to glance back. Gerome is looking at the desk, not at him, touching his fingers to the shape of the black mask on the wood, but there’s something at the corner of his mouth, a curve of almost-hope he’s trying to hide.

“I’ll be awake tomorrow night too.” Careful, those words, framed around a suggestion like he’s afraid Laurent might refuse him. “Late.”

“You ought to rest if you can,” Laurent points out, because he has to. “Sleep is critical to clear thinking.” But he doesn’t reach for the tent flap right away, lingers while he takes a breath himself. “I will remember that.”

The hesitation is worth it for the smile Gerome looks up to give him.


End file.
